Rain... the never-weary chant of Portland .
The rainy season in 1988 lasted longer than usual. The cold rain fell like fine needles, soaking the Gothic Revival spires and thick red-brick walls of Lincoln High School into a deep, dark ochre. The damp air was thick with the scent of earth, decaying leaves, and the restless sweat of adolescence. A sharp bell tore through the corridor's chaos, and the crowd carrying backpacks, gossip, and hormones surged toward their classrooms.
The door to Class 7-C creaked open. Ms. Black, the homeroom teacher, stepped in, followed by a figure. The classroom, once buzzing with noise, fell silent in an instant. Dozens of eyes, like searchlights, locked onto the newcomer.
His name was Wigan Norris. 13 years old, but with a pallor and silence that didn't match his age. His dark brown hair clung to his forehead, half-covering his thick eyebrows. Beneath them, a pair of sunken eyes hard to tell the color looked like a forest lake shrouded in morning mist: hollow, unfocused, as if part of his soul were still trapped in some distant, shadowy corner. He was thin, dressed in an oversized gray hoodie and faded jeans. Everything about him screamed outdated, out of place.
He carried a bulging, sturdy dark green hiking backpack. Though packed to the brim, he moved with ease, showing no strain. The bag's surface was worn, with traces of mud still clinging to the external straps clearly well-used.
"Class, this is Wigan Norris, a new transfer from… Seattle," Ms. Black announced with practiced warmth. "Wigan, take the empty seat by the window in the back row."
Wigan didn't nod or speak. He simply walked silently to the assigned seat. The backpack rustled softly with each step, the contents clinking faintly. A few eyes especially from the back row lingered on the overstuffed bag.